


Meeting the Bees

by satin_doll



Series: The Bee Saga [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All about the bees, Angst, Covers a Span of Years, F/M, Fluff, Part Two of The Bee Saga, Sadness, Series, Sweetness, Tragedy, happiness, joy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:54:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6066225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Molly find a new home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting the Bees

The drive from the village to the cottage is tedious for him but he doesn’t fidget or complain. Instead he tries to find something of interest in the gently rolling landscape he’s driving through, tries to acknowledge her comments appropriately. He makes the effort because this is important to her, this trip through the countryside. It’s important to both of them, really, but he makes her the center of it all, as he always does. It’s all for her, always for and about her. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

They come across a herd of sheep milling about in the middle of the road. It seems there are hundreds of them but he knows that’s an illusion; there can’t be more than thirty. His nose wrinkles; he is slightly disgusted by these oily-coated, daggy-bottomed creatures. Beside him, Molly giggles, softly at first, gradually slipping into full throated laughter. The sheep look like a crowd of confused, hysterical people, trotting this way and that, bumping each other, bleating indignantly as the dog nips at their legs to move them in the right direction. A man stands placidly at the side of the road, watching patiently as the dog does its work. He is dressed in cap and jacket, walking stick in hand, absently chewing a piece of straw. Sherlock rolls his eyes and settles in to wait. He knows there is no hurrying either the sheep or the man.

After a full five minutes the poor dog manages to turn the small herd in the right direction and they move off the road into the field beside it. The man ambles unhurriedly behind them, then turns and gives a nod and a wave, touching his cap and smiling at Molly. He is perhaps fifty years old, maybe a bit older; his face is weathered and brown, but his eyes are bright blue beneath his cap and his smile is engaging. Molly smiles back and waves. Sherlock frowns and puts his foot down on the pedal with - perhaps - a bit more force than needed. He makes a mental note to check out this sheep farmer as soon as he’s able.

It’s another ten minutes before the cottage comes into view. A good walk into the village then, Sherlock notes, as he pulls the car into a short graveled drive, and he and Molly climb out.

Sherlock watches Molly closely. Her face is serious, but he recognizes that light in her eyes: she is already enchanted. The stone cottage is fairy-tale quaint. The front garden is walled with a matching stone, and a very curly wrought-iron gate bars the way into it.

The front door of the cottage is painted a soft wedgewood blue. It opens and a woman steps out. She is about thirty, dressed in a smart black suit, wearing glasses, dyed blond hair in a neat updo. She smiles her professional smile and waves them in.

After perfunctory greetings, Molly and the woman, an agent named Linders (or something like that - Sherlock dismisses her immediately as unimportant), begin chatting about the weather, the countryside, the sheep…about nothing. Sherlock tunes them out and studies the garden, the fence, the gate, the front of the house.

Someone has obviously cared for the property. The garden is well tended, overgrown in that careless-but-studied way English gardens tend to grow. The front of the house looks clean and sturdy, no leaning or bulging, no tuck-pointing needed. The sills of the windows look freshly painted, give no evidence of rot - at least on casual inspection. The door is heavy, thick oak, painted inside and out that soft blue, with heavy wrought iron hinges. Not a color he would have chosen, but it doesn’t offend him. There is a small round window at the top of the door over the first cross-brace. He finally follows the two women into the cottage, trying to set aside both expectations and dread.

The entry is somewhat wider than he expected and much lighter. Directly ahead, a bit to the right in the hallway, is a stairway. Beside that a narrow hall leads to a back door, similar to the front but with a larger window at the top. To the left is a wide archway leading into a lounge or sitting room. To the right another wide arch leads to what looks to be a kitchen.

Sherlock steps into the lounge and is surprised at how large it seems. There is a good-sized bay window in the front facing the garden, letting light stream into the room. A neat stone fireplace graces the far wall, large but not too large to draw well. There are floor-to-celing bookcases lining the walls each side of the fireplace. Heavy beams support the ceiling, which is low but not too low for him to be comfortable standing. The plaster looks clean and uncracked, freshly painted. All in all, it’s a good room, and Sherlock relaxes just a bit, becoming aware of the tension he has been carrying in his neck and shoulders. He wonders idly if the tension is his own caution or the fear of Molly being disappointed yet again.

After visiting six cottages over two days, finding each more unsuitable than the last - dilapidated, ancient, crumbling, or just plain ugly - Sherlock is beginning to think their quest is futile. His own disappointment is mild enough - he can adapt to living just about anywhere as long as Molly is happy. But he hates seeing her shoulders begin to slump as her enthusiasm drains. She wants this. It’s _important_ to her. That makes it doubly important to him.

Molly and the agent - Ms. Lindley, or whoever - have already started up the stairs. Sherlock wanders into the kitchen on the other side of the entry hall, and again, is pleasantly surprised.

The kitchen is an old fashioned keeping room. The front of the room is lined with countertops, sink, stove, fridge, and a long farm table that could serve for both work area and dining. The rest of the space, which runs from the front to the back of the house, is another lounge: a large bright space with another fireplace, more shelves, and several large windows. The ceiling is again slightly low (but not too) striated with heavy oaken beams. Sherlock hms to himself and turns to follow the women upstairs.

The upstairs consists of two large bedrooms and a fairly large bath, all of which are in the same good condition as downstairs. At one side of the squarish hall is a narrow door, which opens onto an equally narrow stairway which leads to…Sherlock’s eyes widen at the sight. The entire second storey is one large, open space. It is lit by windows front and back and an additional skylight overhead. The wood floors have been whitewashed, along with the walls, making the room seem even brighter. It fairly glows with light.

This would make a perfect lab space, he thinks, and for the first time in their search feels a tingle of excitement. Molly can have the extra bedroom for her study. It’s large enough to double as a guest room if there is a bed in it. And this…this can be mine.

Sherlock catches himself up short. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. From the beginning, with their decision to move to the country, he has made this Molly’s quest. He has let her choose where to look, let her make a list of what they want in their new home. It has all been about her happiness and he is fine with that. She deserves whatever she wants, he thinks, and he is more than willing to do whatever it takes to satisfy her. He has never even considered what he wants or needs for himself in this; it doesn’t matter as long as Molly is happy. He has gone along with all of it, and has found himself actually looking forward to the prospect of finding someplace new, someplace without the heavy weight of memories and disappointments and…tragedy. He shies away from that thought. For the first time, he thinks of his own wants and needs in their new place and makes a decision. From what he’s seen so far, this cottage will more than fit the bill. Unless Molly has found some great reason against it, this is where he wants to be. He turns and hurries down the stairs, eager to discover whether Molly still has her enchanted twinkle or not.

He finds the downstairs rooms empty and heads toward the back door, which is open now, letting in a mild breeze and even more light. Ms. Linseed (or whatever her name is) is standing just outside, watching Molly fairly dance around the back garden, which is just as well tended as the front. She runs up to Sherlock immediately and grasps his hand, tugging him down the dirt path to a small stand of trees some yards away.

“Oh, Sherlock! Come and see, you have to see this! It’s…” She laughs and pulls harder, then releases his hand and skips ahead, glancing back over her shoulder. When they reach the trees she stops and bounces a few times, hands clasped under her chin, grinning like a little girl with a very big secret. Sherlock stops beside her and she turns and sweeps her hand in front of her, very much like a game show presenter showing off the prizes.

“Look!” she says, and then dashes forward again.

Beside the trees is another low stone wall. Inside the enclosed area are rows of grayish white boxes, and from the boxes comes a constant drone. His mouth opens slightly in surprise as he joins Molly at the wall.

Bees. Boxes and boxes of behives, lined up neatly in rows. He glances at Molly, who is looking up at him like she’s about to burst. She grabs his arm and leans against him slightly.

“Dad had bees when he was a boy,” she says and her delight is tempered a bit with a dreamy nostalgia. “He and his dad used to keep them and he told me all kinds of stories about it. He loved the bees. I think he was very sad to have to leave them when he went off to school and then work. When his dad died and they sold the place, he almost cried, having to let them go for good.”

Molly turns to him, searches his face. Her voice has become soft, unsure. “Do you like this place, Sherlock? Do you think…is this a place you could live and be…happy?”

Sherlock stares at the bees, busily working and humming around their odd white boxes. He likes bees. They were no-nonsense creatures, focused on their work and their odd bee lives, content to let the rest of the world alone as long as they themselves weren’t bothered. He looks down at Molly’s precious face, her eyes full of both hope and concern and feels something swell inside him. Something both familiar and strange. Something he thinks he will forever associate with the oddly comforting drone of bees, the way he associates most of the good in his life with Molly.

Contentment.

He brushes a strand of hair from her cheek, noting with a deep surge of need, that it is grey. He smiles as he gently tucks the strand behind her ear, then touches her chin with his finger. He nods his own greying head and says softly, “I think we’ve found our new home, Molly.”

She lays her head against his chest and sighs and he slips his arms around her and holds her tightly. Our new home, he thinks, and closes his eyes, listening to the hum of the bees.

 

 

 


End file.
